Dear Mycroft
by Miracule
Summary: He didn't know whether it was all an elaborate test or a halfhearted suicide attempt. He wouldn't put either one past Sherlock, and it could very well have been both.
1. Chapter 1

Mycroft walked. He didn't think he'd ever been so cold in all his life. His feet seemed to be made of lead and his blood pounded noisily in his ears. His lungs burned with each breath. The darkness had eaten away at the corners of his vision and he prayed he wouldn't fall and break a limb. The boy was heavy in his arms, and Mycroft found himself thinking back to carting his girlfriend playfully across her yard. _Stupid_, he thought. That was a summer afternoon. She hadn't run off in the middle of the night, into the woods.

And unlike Sherlock, she hadn't been a dead weight.

"Stupid," he repeated out loud. If Sherlock were awake, he could hook his arms around Mycroft's neck and ease the pain in his stiff limbs. He hadn't noticed it at first, but after stumbling across the footbridge and nearly snapping his ankle, he moved more warily. The aforementioned bridge was a favorite of Sherlock's. Only a few years ago he used to stand at the edge try to catch fish with a thread of dental floss.

"You stupid little fucker," Mycroft said to the air. He started when his younger brother moaned weakly into his coat. "_Sherlock_."

"Mycrof'." The boy's voice was cracked and clumsy. "You..."

"Noticed the m-missing bottle," he provided, struggling for breath in between words.

Sherlock shuddered violently and pressed his small cold face into Mycroft's coat. He was becoming heavier with each step. Mycroft swore once, and once again for good measure. His fingers fumbled with his brother's coat. He hefted him up; wrapped him more tightly in his arms. "You little _bastard_."

They were almost in their own yard. Just a few more minutes and they would be out of the grove, he guessed. Then all that remained was the garden. He bent his head and immediately the scent of his mother's preferred sweet wine met his nose. He quickened his pace and became increasingly aware of Sherlock's slowing, trembling breaths.

The minute Mycroft had arrived, he knew what he was going to do. Sherlock had resisted weakly, trying to stumble off in the other direction, but Mycroft had thrown him to the ground. He had grabbed his brother's damp hair in one hand and pried open his small jaw with the other. Sticking a finger down his throat was relatively easy, despite Sherlock's halfhearted clawing at his arm. The smell had been worse.

"You'll just forget, won't you?" he practically spat. But he could still hear the desperation in his own voice. When he'd noticed the amount of liquor that had disappeared from the bottle in his brother's hand, he'd practically been ill himself.

Mycroft gasped. His feet had finally hit the wet soft grass of the lawn. The house loomed up in the black, dark save for a few windows. The door was unlocked, as he'd left it, and the sudden warmth and sweet odor of the main hallway made him dizzy. He practically dropped his brother onto the floor, taking care to prop him against the wall. Sherlock was out cold. His skin was so white that Mycroft lost his train of thought for a moment. Then he thrust himself into the next room, grabbed the telephone with numb fingers, and dialed.

While speaking with the responder, he flew back into the hallway to make sure his brother hadn't decided to choke on his own vomit. He hadn't. "He was awake till a few minutes ago," he told the lady on the other end of the line. "He...knew who I was."

She assured him that an ambulance would be there soon, and told him to calm down. Only then did Mycroft notice that his hands were shaking. He hung up and let the receiver clatter to the hardwood floor.

He then decided to support Sherlock's small, twelve-year old head against his knee. It seemed like a good thing to do. The silence pressed down on his ears, which still ached from the cold. Was it his fault? The note had read: _Dear Mycroft. Out in the woods, across the bridge. Come join. S._

He'd forgotten to add, '_Trying to drink myself to death'. _ Mycroft didn't know whether to be angry or to cry. He didn't know whether it was all an elaborate test or a halfhearted suicide attempt. He wouldn't put either one past Sherlock, and it could very well have been both. He grabbed his brother's hair and tugged; hard but not too hard. His head merely lolled to the edge of Mycroft's knee.

The elder Holmes brother, at that moment, was convinced that he was at fault. Sherlock was his responsibility and his alone. He'd gone wrong. Somewhere.

When the paramedics banged on the door, Mycroft started so violently that he nearly let Sherlock's body slip from his grasp. But he didn't have the luxury of being careful. Mycroft let go. He heard the gentle thump of his brother hitting the ground but didn't bother looking back. He flew to the door and wrenched it open, nearly collapsing as his muscles balked at the task.

The woman's face was ruddy, and Mycroft stared at her, his mind numb. "Where is he?" she asked firmly. She and her partner, a small man, obviously inexperienced, stepped around him. The woman's face was impassive and almost unconcerned as she looked down at the boy.

They set to work, and Mycroft could only linger in the background, shivering and watching. "I'm his guardian," he offered lamely, his voice tiny. So they took him with them.

* * *

><p>The gentle beeping and buzz of machinery had nearly put Mycroft to sleep. He was sore, exhausted, and sick to his stomach, but the room was dark and warm. So he curled himself up against the chair and tried to keep his eyes closed. Sherlock's breathing was even. He'd woken up earlier, Mycroft had been told, and he'd been all right. At least that's what he gathered from their words. Sherlock had been looked after, and he would be all right.<p>

When he finally mustered the courage to go to his brother's room, Sherlock had been fast asleep.

Before settling into his chair, which looked quite ancient and worn, Mycroft had leaned against the hospital bed and looked into Sherlock's small, sharp face. He almost began to cry, but couldn't bring himself to allow it. Instead, he touched his lips briefly to his brother's forehead. The skin felt cool and dry against his lips, and Mycroft quickly pulled away. Cool, yes, but not cold. Not nearly as cold as he had been in the woods.

"Why November?" he asked the air. It was so damn cold.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft sat straighter in his chair when he heard Sherlock begin to murmur under his breath. His muscles ached and his stomach felt shriveled and empty. He wished desperately that he had a mint to chew on.

Sherlock's eyes were glassy and pink. If Mycroft didn't know better, he might've guessed that Sherlock couldn't see, as if a sightless film impaired his vision. But no. Mycroft rolled his shoulders and inched to the edge of his chair.

"Sherlock," he said coolly. His voice sounded uninterested and tight even to himself.

The boy inclined his head toward the noise. His eyes rolled toward Mycroft, slowly. "You're here," he said, his voice hoarse. "Sorry."

"Sorry?" Mycroft hissed. He couldn't bear to sit so he got to his feet, his heart pounding mercilessly in his ribs.

"Yes. I'm sorry..." Sherlock paused to inhale, but ended up with a rattling cough. He gagged once, and Mycroft was a hair away from yanking on the cord for a nurse. But his brother shook his dark head quickly and adamantly, so Mycroft let his hand fall.

"I'm sorry," he continued, "That I scared you."

Mycroft wasn't sure how to respond. His tongue felt like lead in his mouth. "You could have died," he said weakly. "You're not stupid. You would've died."

"Maybe."

"MAYBE?" he yelped. Sherlock gave a small jerk and Mycroft immediately dampened his voice.

"Maybe? You would've. If I hadn't gotten to you...you little _bastard_," he added venomously. "You did it on purpose."

Sherlock grimaced and looked down at the white sheets. His pale fingers grabbed a corner and aimlessly worked the fabric. He did not speak, so Mycroft moved to the foot of the bed and continued to stare at him. He almost wished he could pierce his little brother with his gaze-it would be like pricking him with a pin. _Look at me. Look at me. No? I can make you._ But he quickly banished the thought.

"Mr. Holmes," remarked a low voice from the doorway. Both brothers turned to regard the visitor. He wore a milky white coat and his hands rested comfortably in his pockets. "I'm Dr. Hamish Watson; could you come with me for a moment? How are you feeling, Sherlock?" he added brightly.

The boy nodded wordlessly. "All right." Dr. Watson held out an arm and beckoned Mycroft into the hallway. It was around six in the morning, and there was only a subdued buzz of activity around the nurses' station.

"You're not his guardian," he began. "Are you?"

Mycroft sighed and smiled thinly. "No. My mother is."

"I'm afraid that since you're only eighteen we're going to need to contact her. We tried, but she didn't answer. And your father wasn't listed at all." He paused and leaned against the nearest wall. His eyes were soft, and Mycroft opted to play nicely with him. "Where is your mother, Mr. Holmes?" He beckoned a certain nurse, who brought Mycroft a clipboard with the form he'd filled out earlier.

He took it from her stiffly and wrote down a number. "In Paris," he said, handing it over. "Since I was old enough to drive I've been looking after my brother, Dr. Watson."

"Is there anyone else we can contact? An adult relative?"

"I am an adult."

"I know." Dr. Watson looked sympathetic. "But it's protocol, Mr. H-"

"Call me Mycroft," the elder Holmes bristled. "My father isn't here."

"It's protocol, Mycroft. I'm sure you're perfectly capable of looking after Sherlock, but what happened...I'm afraid we have to keep him here until your mother comes back or appoints a proper guardian."

"How long do you need to keep him?"

Dr. Watson took a step toward him, lowering his voice. "It depends. If I go in there and ask him, will Sherlock tell me whether or not this was an attempt to take his own life?"

"No," said Mycroft plainly. "He won't."

"Was it?"

He looked up at Dr. Watson and shook his head. "I don't know." Suddenly he felt miserably inadequate as a brother. His stomach turned and he pressed his fingers to his forehead, trying to quell the ache in his skull. "I just..." he broke off, and his throat felt as if it were closing.

"Try to reach the mother," Watson said to the nurse. He placed a heavy hand on Mycroft's shoulder and told him to calm down; to take a few minutes. Then he had to move away to look at another chart.

"Dad?" a small voice inquired. A small boy around Sherlock's age had slid up to him. From the sound of him, he'd already hit puberty. _Older than Sherlock, then._ "Sorry to interrupt, but can I have some money for the cafeteria?"

"John," said Dr. Watson quietly, reaching into his pocket, "Don't go getting any sweets." He handed over a few bills and shooed him off. Mycroft watched him plod off down the hallway and out of sight.

"My son," offered Dr. Watson, noticing Mycroft's cool gaze. "I had to bring him to work today."

A few minutes later, Mycroft had excused himself. After checking to see if Sherlock was still awake, he hadn't been able to remain in the room. His brother's even breathing gave him the only excuse he needed to escape. _What if he's faking?_ It didn't matter. The nurse had an eye on him; he'd made sure of that.

He made his way to the cafeteria for a cup of tea. He couldn't leave the hospital; that was out of the question. _I'm not that cruel._ There were a few residents milling around sluggishly. A few others were there as well; friends and family of patients, no doubt. A woman stumbled past Mycroft, wiping at her tired eyes with a napkin. She obviously hadn't changed her clothes in over a day.

Mycroft also happened across John, Watson's son. He was sitting at a table with an orderly, chewing and brooding. He spied the eldest Holmes brother and smiled shyly, with nothing short of sympathy in his eyes. Mycroft guessed that he was at least a few years older than his brother; perhaps 14 or 15. His short stature and boyish face had hidden the maturity that Mycroft now noticed.

By the time he'd bought his tea, however, John had vanished, and only the orderly remained. Mycroft hadn't thought to take a few napkins with him, and the cup was too hot to hold in one hand for long. He wandered through a few wards, just breathing and thinking. Well, _feeling_ more than thinking.

He felt guilt. Wave after wave of sickening regret and remorse. He should have spent more time with him. He should have been warmer to him. He shouldn't have avoided going home every day after school. He should have made certain that Sherlock had a web of support, to keep him from falling. He'd left him alone in that place with the housekeeper nearly every day. Even worse, he'd left him alone with their mother.

When Mycroft _had_ been home, he studied. Day turned to night and night turned to blackness, and Sherlock would play outside, running around the yard in his eye patch and black boots. When it got dark he would come inside and romp around his father's old study, flipping through ancient volumes. Some days he would sit in front of the television, munching on biscuits. Sometimes he even practiced his violin. He involved the cat and occasionally shot questions at the housekeeper, but he had given up on Mycroft.

"_What can I do now?" _

"_Phone a friend, Sherlock." _

"_I don't want to." _

"_Go across the stream, then." _

_So Sherlock went. _

Now it was far too late to call him back. Mycroft swallowed a mouthful of tea too quickly and it burned his throat going down. He swallowed it with a grimace and a small groan. Suddenly uninterested, he stopped at the nearest restroom to pour the remaining Earl Grey into the sink. Then he thought better of it, and continued on his way to Sherlock's ward. Before reentering the room, he stopped a nurse he recognized.

"Can I give him tea?" he asked.

She smiled gently and nodded. "All right. But he should drink it slowly. We're going to give him something to eat soon, also."

Mycroft thanked her curtly and went in.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, but the pulse on the monitor told Mycroft that he was awake. "I brought you some tea."

"What sort?"

"Earl Grey."

"Your favorite."

"Would you like some?" He put it on the bedside table. Sherlock moved carefully to accommodate his IV drip. He sat up shakily and reached for the cup, but Mycroft met him halfway and placed it in his small hands. "Be careful, it's hot."

Sherlock eyed him. "Why haven't you left yet?"

The question stung. "I'm your brother. They're trying to reach Mum, but...Maybe I'll give them another number. I'm still on holiday, remember?"

Sherlock took a sip, and continued to examine his brother. "You're still frightened," he said slowly. The thought seemed to stir something in him. He shifted his body and grimaced. "_You_."

Mycroft said nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

The woman's heels made a rhythmic tapping noise as she walked briskly down the hall. Mycroft sat up in his chair, peeling his sweaty palm from his cheek. His head was still aching, and Sherlock had long since lapsed into silence. Both brothers looked toward the door as the footsteps grew louder and more ominous.

Mycroft turned to glance at Sherlock, whose eyes were bright and unfocused.

"Maybe that's Aunt Mary?" he offered. The hospital had made contact with their mother, and she and Mycroft had separately confirmed Aunt Mary as a liaison of sorts. This way, the doctors had their responsible adult, and Mycroft and Sherlock would have the house to themselves. Sometimes it _was_ good to be a member of the Holmes family.

The loud woman was indeed Aunt Mary. After all the necessary paperwork was filled out and filed away, their mother notified, and Sherlock properly lectured, they left. There was no big fuss about it; they merely walked out into the chilly morning air as if nothing had happened. Aunt Mary adjusted her coat as she fished for the keys to her car, a black Mercedes she liked to call 'The Carriage'_. _Mycroft watched her, silently. He was shaking so badly he felt as if he were going to simply fall apart. He had no coat, and Sherlock only had a jumper. Mycroft's jumper. The older Holmes had struggled out of it and jammed it over Sherlock's head before they'd left the building.

"Really, Sherlock," said Aunt Mary vaguely, with the crackly voice of a chain smoker. "I never thought you'd be one for trouble like this. What were you thinking?" She unlocked the car and ushered them into the backseat. Mycroft hesitated, nearly going around the rear of the car toward the front seat. He shook his head jerkily to himself and swore under his breath as he slid in next to his brother.

Sherlock shivered and slid his small body to the right, making more than enough room for his sibling. Mycroft crossed his arms tightly around his chest and curled into himself.

"I'm going to bring you home. Mycroft?"

"Yes."

"You can look after him for a few days, can't you?"

He was silent. _He thought he could. Apparently not. I can't._ "I will."

As he answered, Mycroft blinked blearily at the sun. It looked so odd. It felt as though it should still be nighttime, but they'd been hours in the hospital. Sherlock leaned his head back and scrunched his eyes shut. Mycroft patted his pockets with numb fingers to check for his keys. _Right where they always are, stupid._

She pulled up the drive, the pebbles crackling under the tires. Mycroft felt ill and had to clutch onto the seat in front of him. He could feel himself breathing shallowly-painfully. She stopped the car.

"I'll be back later to check on you," she said offhandedly. "But I _am_ terribly busy. I'll be back, though." Perhaps she did have some common sense in her pale blond head after all. Mycroft stiffly exited the vehicle and waited for his younger brother to come around _The Carriage_. Sherlock shuffled toward him, slowly, without sparing him a glance.

Mycroft tossed a disdainful sneer at his aunt. "Perhaps you needn't bother," he murmured. She didn't hear. Instead, she waved a gloved hand and drove off, as if her life depended on it.

Sherlock swayed, and Mycroft's stomach lurched, all thoughts of his aunt forgotten. He grabbed the boy's shoulders, but Sherlock shook his head and shrugged him off. "I'm fine." He started walking toward the house, looking even slimmer than usual in his borrowed jumper. Mycroft follows him at a safe distance.

"Why don't you lie down?"

"I'm hungry."

"I'll make something for you," Mycroft said flatly. He crossed his arms tightly around his chest and stared hard at the back of his younger sibling's head. Sherlock reached the front door and automatically raised a white hand. He tried the handle, but the door just made a noise and didn't budge. He stiffened as Mycroft leaned around him to stuff the key into the lock. As he pulled his arm back, Mycroft caught a whiff of something odd. It smelled like...sterility. Soap, maybe. _Definitely from the hospital_. Sherlock looked up at him and blinked.

"What?"

Mycroft tried not to stare at anything in particular. "You should rest. Go to bed."

"I don't want to." He carried himself nice and tall as he stepped over the threshold. Mycroft followed meekly and shut the door behind them. Sherlock padded silently into the living room, looking at the floor.

"What are you thinking?" Mycroft finally broke, and felt compelled to ask. He always had trouble reading what was on his brother's mind. Now the difficulty of it seemed compounded.

"I'm thinking...that..." Sherlock paused indefinitely, and his older brother wrung his hands together.

"I'll make you something to eat," he offered, straying slowly into the kitchen instead. It felt cold and unwelcoming, as if he were a stranger in someone else's home. But even that would be preferable to this house. Practically any other structure would be preferable, come to think of it. Mycroft rummaged clumsily through the cabinets. He wasn't a stranger to preparing food for Sherlock, but he felt so utterly incompetent that everything suddenly seemed alien to him. "What would you like?"

"I don't know," was the soft reply. "What do we have?"

Mycroft buried his face deep into the recessed of the shelf. "Pasta. All right...a lot of it, actually. I suppose we have butter in the fridge, and there's the olive oil...I know you don't care much for white sauces."

"No, but..."

"The bread's a bit stale. But there has to be some kind of meat in the fridge. We could do sandwiches."

"I..."

"Soup," interrupted Mycroft, digging out a few cans. "I wonder if these are still all right to eat. Soup doesn't go bad easily, does it? Not in these cans..." He trailed off as he noticed Sherlock standing in the doorway. His sharp features appeared dulled and sickly.

"I'm not that hungry. Actually, I don't really feel well." As if on cue, Sherlock's eyes, bright with fear, widened. He covered his mouth and bolted down the hallway, his bare feet making a slapping noise on the hardwood flooring. Mycroft leaned into the hallway and saw that the bathroom door was ajar. He felt as if his insides were twisting up and tying together.

"Are you okay?" he called breathlessly. He was answered by the sound of retching. Apart from that, there was absolute silence. Sherlock didn't squeal or sob or try to respond to him. In all truthfulness, Mycroft couldn't hear anything else beside the sounds of his brother being sick. Later, he would figure that someone could've shot a gun upstairs and he would've had trouble noticing.

"Are you all right?"

Silence.

Then, finally, "Yes. Sorry."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. On the way back I felt a bit sick. But I ignored it. Probably just..." Sherlock paused to cough, and Mycroft could hear fluid rattling around in his throat.

"Never mind, just...I'll wait for you." He retreated back into the kitchen, and his skin crawled. He was always ready to retreat. Whenever Sherlock let a little humanity show; let a few of his fears or insecurities into the open, Mycroft backed away. He'd been doing it since he was young, and anything other than a teasing or a cool word toward Sherlock felt out of place on his tongue. He didn't even know how to be kind to his own brother. He wanted to help him; he wanted to say that he was sorry and that it was his fault for being selfish and bitter. But it felt like trying to swallow a knife.

_You've ruined him already, Mycroft Holmes. It's too late for apologies. _

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: REICHENBAAAACH. *gross sobbing*_  
><em>


	4. Chapter 4

"Why?" asked Mycroft, fixing Sherlock with the coldest, most piercing gaze he could muster. Sherlock looked calmly back, over his half-eaten bowl of buttered pasta. His hair was unkempt and sticking up at odd angles, still damp from a recent shower.

He toyed with the edge of the dish and pushed it toward the middle of the oaken table. Mycroft didn't blink, nor did he swallow the lump of fear in his throat. He merely continued to stare. "Tell me why."

"I didn't mean to drink so much," replied Sherlock lazily, his gaze lost in some faraway place. He pulled his dish back and peered inside. "That was good." He raised his head and regarded his brother, but only for long enough to add, "It was nice."

Mycroft found himself in a very deep hole. He did not agree, nor did he disagree with his brother's statement. "You're not answering."

"I don't know what you want me to say." His words were suddenly clipped. "I'm sorry?"

"I want to know _why_, Sherlock! Why go off in the middle of the woods with a bottle of _muscatel_?"

"It was the sweetest one we own." He didn't waste a minute on his replies, and Mycroft found himself gaping at his twelve year-old brother...His brother who could control him, push him, and stupefy him with naught but the coolness in his voice.

Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh and began to slide off his chair. Mycroft then found himself doing something he wasn't aware he was capable of. He screamed. "SIT DOWN, SHERLOCK! Don't move!"

His younger brother was so taken aback that he nearly fell off his seat anyway. His narrow chest rose and fell quickly with sharp, shallow breaths. His eyes were huge as they fixed on Mycroft, who was equally stunned. He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and looked down at his hands, noticing for the first time that they were trembling. The sound of his own voice seemed to reverberate in his ears; a phantom noise. As the moments passed, the memory seemed more and more false, and the heavy silence became more alien. Had he actually yelled, or just imagined it?

But Sherlock's horrified stare and pallid skin, drained of blood, told Mycroft that he had. Mummy never raised her voice, and by default, neither did Mycroft. As a child, if he had yelled or stomped his foot, she would ignore him for at least a good day and a half. She wouldn't say a word to him until he stood in front of her and dutifully apologized. He'd never gotten what he wanted by making a show.

"I'm sorry," he said weakly. "I didn't mean to...I just don't know what to _do_ with you."

"What to _do_ with me?"

"Yes." Mycroft gritted his teeth, sticking by his choice of words. "I don't know whether to watch you, or leave you alone...or...or punish you. I don't know. I don't know what you want from me."

"I don't want anything."

"Then why would you...?"

"I wanted to try it. Almost all the other kids at school have drank." It was an uncharacteristically obvious lie.

Mycroft felt his jaw clenching. "You're not quite thirteen. A few sips would have been enough, don't you think? You must've downed half the bottle."

"I liked it." Another lie.

"You did _not_. No kid likes the taste of alcohol. I don't even like it." Mycroft realized that he had half-risen from his chair, and slowly sat back down. His back ached from being scrunched up at the hospital. In fact, every ligament and muscle and bone in his body seemed to throb with a dull, incessant pain. Sherlock regarded him through carefully guarded, tired eyes.

"Are you okay?" he murmured, as if he were merely wondering aloud. Mycroft dropped his head into his elbow by way of a response. Sherlock was being infuriatingly quiet, considering the situation at hand. Mycroft couldn't help but wonder where his defiant and fiercely autonomous attitude had gone. The only thing that gave Mycroft a fleeting sense of comfort was the fact that Sherlock was trying, yet failing, not to care. "Well? Are you?"

"Just aches and pains," replied Mycroft, leveling his voice. "So are you not going to tell me?"

Sherlock merely picked up his congealing bowl of pasta and walked it into the kitchen. Mycroft listened carefully to his footsteps fading away into the other room. His dish clinked as he placed it on the counter. Mycroft continued listening. Sherlock thought for a moment before picking up the plate again and walking it to the garbage bin. The pasta fell out in a lump, and Mycroft winced slightly. It must've been too dry. Sherlock walked back toward the sink and placed the empty bowl on the counter, before moving to the refrigerator. It made a small popping sound as he opened it.

"We're out of milk," he announced.

"I'll get some," Mycroft assured, emptily.

"And ham."

"All right."

"And there are no more biscuits."

The following silence was disconcerting, and his chest felt a bit tight. He was anxious. He turned around to face the entrance to the kitchen and swallowed. "For how long?"

"A few days."

"I didn't know."

"How could you?" His brother's tone of indifference made Mycroft feel a bit weak. "You weren't here most of the time."

"You should've told me." But it was true enough. Mycroft spent a lot of his time lunching and supping with school friends, and trying not to think about home. He'd bought things for Sherlock from the store and asked the housekeeper, Miss Clara, to pick up some items. Not the right ones, apparently; not what Sherlock wanted.

"I did."

There was an even longer pause, during which Mycroft began to feel a bit warm. "You didn't tell me anything." He would've remembered.

There was the sound of a piece of paper being torn from a piece of tape, followed by Sherlock's near-silent footfalls. He dropped a small note in Mycroft's general vicinity, and waited. He unfolded it gently, with no sense of urgency.

_Dear Mycroft. _

_Out of milk, ham, and biscuits. _

_Be a dear and get some. _

"Where did you put this?"

"On your bed."

Mycroft sighed and pinched his nose. "I'm sorry, I've been..."

"Sleeping on the couch in the study. I know. You're living in the study."

"Then why...?"

"Why not sleep in your room?"

Mycroft sighed, becoming flustered. _So, a trap._ He shook his head wordlessly. "I...I don't know. It's more comfortable."

"You want to leave."

"Well, that's not..." It was absolutely true. Mycroft looked up into Sherlock's face and realized with horror that his eyes were glassy and tinged with pink. The light from the ceiling seemed to dance in them, reflected by the tears that had begun to pool. Mycroft felt as if someone had taken a knee to his gut.

"Don't...Sherlock..." he sputtered. "I'm sorry, it's just that..."

Sherlock took a deep, trembling breath, and set his mouth into a hard line. The last time he'd cried in his older brother's presence, their old cat, Tubbs, had just died. That had been four years ago. He wiped his eyes and nodded, whilst Mycroft struggled in vain to generate an excuse.

But of _course _he wanted to leave. Their mother was about as warm as an icicle, Sherlock drained his energy, and there was nothing left for him in the old house save for a few old relics and distant memories. He thought back.

When he hadn't been busy shutting himself away to do schoolwork, he'd struggled, in the only way he knew how, to build a home. But those countless hours of being Mummy for Sherlock hadn't done much to foster a bond of brotherhood. It was difficult to be an ally whilst demanding that Sherlock put his trousers on _this instant, or you can't have any dessert. _When he wasn't preparing his brother's egg sandwiches or looking over his homework, he happily left Sherlock to his own devices. And so they drifted apart.

It always came back to that, no matter how hard Mycroft struggled to remember something he did right.

"I tried," he told Sherlock, truthfully. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want to be here anymore," his brother replied, steadily. He waited for a moment; waited for a response. When he realized he wasn't going to get one, he added, "I want to go back with you."


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft felt as if all the air had been squeezed out of his lungs. The pain and the horror that blossomed in his stomach were merciless. He could hear Sherlock's breathing, loud and slow, and wished that his little brother would simply walk away. He wanted to dismiss him; tell him to go to the television and watch one of his beloved police dramas.

He began to hope, foolishly, that if he ignored the question long enough, Sherlock would forget he had asked it, or be too ashamed to repeat it. But the boy made no move to leave. He was waiting for a reply; refusing to give his brother any sort of leeway. If anything, he inched closer to Mycroft's hunched form. "Well?" he pressed.

Mycroft was at a loss. He felt a terrible pressure behind his eyes and once more dropped his head into his warm, sweating palms. But nothing could make Sherlock's question cease its screaming and clamoring inside his brain, as if it were trying to tear him up from the inside. He was frightened. Above that, he was broken. He knew what he was going to say; the hard, selfish, pessimistic response that Sherlock was dreading.

Mycroft looked up into his brother's face. As he'd guessed, Sherlock's eyes were fixed on him, unmoving. His soft lips were a hard thin line, and his forehead creased with tension. He continued to breathe louder than usual, anxiously sucking in air.

"I can't do that, Sherlock," Mycroft answered, his voice firm despite his weakness. "You know that. It's impossible. It's...I can't take you to school."

Sherlock said nothing, so Mycroft quickly continued, "I can't keep you in my dormitory; where would you stay?"

"Why can't you?"

_Because I can't tote such heavy baggage back to Cambridge. _"It's not allowed!"

"Since when have you followed all the rules?" the boy squawked. He trembled slightly and immediately changed tactics, not wanting to squander his chance. "I can't stay here. It's so cold and empty and it's so _boring_! Mummy doesn't _care_, you know!"

Mycroft almost told him to make some goddamn friends. If he had someone to invite over for supper or to play Pirates with, perhaps it wouldn't be so dreary. But he knew that Sherlock had no companions of which to speak. He preferred it that way, since none of the other children were particularly interested in chemistry kits or collecting leaves or all the other eccentric activities Sherlock so enjoyed. Even when he did something relatively normal (pretend to be a pirate, or settle down to watch telly) he rambled to himself. It made other children uncomfortable, or annoyed them, just as it annoyed Mycroft.

"What would I do with you at school? I'm in class. I'm working. There are no other kids there, Sherlock! They wouldn't let you _stay_." He was struck by an image of his brother sitting amongst tall, severe-looking academics, _deducing_ their sordid private lives. Mycroft also pictured himself, dodging snickers and pitying looks.

Mycroft preferred to be permanently under the radar of his classmates and professors. With the shadow of his odd, mercurial baby brother nearby, even for a few days...

"Surely you didn't think..." The cruelty of the words shriveled them up on his tongue. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. It's impossible."

"Only because you don't care. You don't _care_." Sherlock's cadence was clipped. "You don't care, Mycroft!" He practically hissed out the name.

The older brother stood and waved dismissively, as if Sherlock had asked to go for ice cream in the park. "You couldn't have expected anything..."

"You don't care about me! You never did! Shut _up_!" he cried, as Mycroft opened his mouth to interrupt. "I hate you!"

With that childlike, brutally honest declaration, Sherlock turned on his heel and fled the room. Mycroft stared after him, hardly daring to breathe. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. It wasn't as if he never did anything for Sherlock; he'd defended him from their mother, he'd looked after him for years. He may not have been the best brother, _but I surely..._His thoughts trailed off into a haze of doubt. He wasn't used to such bitter emotion.

Mycroft pulled himself up and trudged into the kitchen. He put the dishes in the washer and pushed the glasses into the sink. He didn't bother turning the water on; instead opting to leave them for later. He went into the living room and dragged his sore, useless body onto the couch before he nestled his face into the cushions and groaned aloud. There was a burning, tight sensation in his throat that he was hopelessly unaccustomed to.

He sniffed and wiped at his eyes, and even clenched his teeth together. Nothing could stop the hot tears that tracked down his cheeks and dampened the fabric. Some time later, he wondered where Sherlock had gone off to. He raised his head, fighting dizziness, and called out for him. After what had happened earlier, he didn't want to take any chances.

"Sherlock!" he nearly sobbed. He hated himself at that moment; hated his mind, his emotional instability, his insignificance and selfishness. "_Sherlock_!"

"I'm here, but I won't talk to you again!" went the echoed reply. The words were faint; he must have been upstairs somewhere. Mycroft was just grateful that he was still in the house at all.

As the days progressed, his relief at Sherlock's forewarned silence quickly turned to fear.

Mycroft guessed that Sherlock had decided, in that child's brain of his, that he would never speak to his brother again. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many times he repeated the same question, the boy remained still and silent. He followed Mycroft's suggestions to eat dinner and take a bath but said nothing. Even when Mycroft knelt to level Sherlock's gaze, fumbling to explain why he couldn't accompany him to Cambridge, Sherlock was unresponsive. He didn't speak at all.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He spoke to the cats, and to the maid who had returned from holiday. He spoke to the rocks outside, and to the air. He spoke to himself.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," Mycroft begged for the thousandth time. "Say something."

Silence.

Mycroft could feel himself unraveling once more. For his entire life he'd always had Sherlock to talk to. Even when they only bickered and traded snide comments, it had been good to know that they had a refuge in each other; an understanding that they were both irrevocably at odds with the rest of the world. They were both different.

Now the elder Holmes brother felt that he was utterly alone; a thought that was mind-numbingly exhausting. The only kin that mattered to him had turned his back, and it was all due to his incompetence as a brother.

"When I get out of school," he began, desperately, "I'll come get you."

Sherlock's dark head inclined toward him, and Mycroft felt his heart skip a beat. "Mmm?"

"I promise, I'll try. When I get my own flat, I'll bring you with me."

Sherlock raised his gaze, and his cold pale eyes seemed to be melting. For a moment, he remained unspeaking. Then, "You promise?"

"Yes. Just another three years or so. Maybe less."


End file.
